CHAPTER XIX.
A half hour before, Elliott had been in a delicious reverie passing what were, perhaps the sweetest moments of his life. He had awakened early from a dream. He had dreamed that he felt the touch of soft fingers upon his cheek and the beating of a loving heart against his, and the memory of the ecstasy lingered like some charmed spell. Dorothy was his very own—Dorothy, crowned with the beauty which combined all of the woman and all of the angel. He saw nothing in the world save her radiant face. He praised God for giving him her love, and the hope of preserving that nearest likeness on earth to heaven—a home. This sweet foretokening of life’s full, ripe completeness had filled his heart.
Joyous, enraptured, young, he had stepped upon the railway platform at Georgetown. From such thoughts to the vivid scene at the jail, was an abrupt and wild plunge into a whirling abysm. His mind was in a turmoil, and he felt the need of cooling air and brisk movement to regain his composure.
As he set out on foot for the Carr’s, the sheriff, relieved from the anxiety of the jail attack, overtook him. Laying hand on his shoulder, he said earnestly:
“Mr. Harding, you are a credit to your principles. I’m mightily obliged to you. When you need a friend, I’m your man. Nobody could have stopped that mob but you.”
“I—why anyone else could have done so as well.”
“No, because it was known that Miss Carr and you was goin’ to be married soon. They naturally thought you ought to be the man to fix the scoundrel’s sentence.”
Elliott sprang round with such a start that the sheriff shrank back instinctively.
“What!” he gasped, “you don’t mean—you don’t mean—”
“My God!” said the sheriff. “Haven’t you heard?”